


Six arms to hug you with

by Coils



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Anthro spider, Baking, Body Worship, Healing, Light Bondage, Living Together, Other, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-10-28 08:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17783633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coils/pseuds/Coils
Summary: Light-hearted romance between a male version of Muffet and Reader. Contains lots of baking and multiple-armed loving.





	1. Cookies

The lukewarm breath gushing through your cheeks misted up the chilly windows glass, creating a suitable canvas for your fingertip. You slid it in the shape of a stout oval across the smooth, refreshing surface. Six thin, curvy lines to its sides followed suit, as did a circle on its tip, which you crowned with two fang-like protrusions.

A spider!

Cooking and baking utensils, ingredients, bowls and dishes… Everything had been ready on your end for quite a while now, leaving you to simply watch the gentle snowfall outside, waiting for him to arrive. Elbows on your kitchen table, you tapped your slippers on the floor and occasionally tugged at the suspenders of your rather frilly, not to mention rather fucshia apron… a gift of his. Sometimes you felt embarrassed enough having them on home…. Which made you wonder how the hell had you managed to live with your shame after wearing it to so many bakery sales and seminars. That was until you remembered he had made a habit of mentioning how adorable you looked in it, and well… no harm in humouring him. It was a pretty nice silken apron all things considered. It went so well with his own clothes, too.

Not to mention seeing you in it seemed to make him much more prone to smiling.

The condensation of your sigh drowned your cute little arachnid doodle in mist. You were really worried about him coming back on his own, especially on such a cold day, as you knew first-hand how vulnerable he was to low temperatures. Yet he had especially insisted for you not to come pick him up. As usual, you simply obliged and trusted his judgement, but this time, your concern for his well-being was really getting the best of you. Perhaps he had something planned? He did seem quit eager to spend the holidays with his family back on the underground, so maybe he had figured something to help them with the cold as well? The thought of him having to go through Snowdin by himself without your help was the most concerning, even if you already knew he had made it back. He had already texted you about it. You leaned back on your chair and crossed your arms, blankly fixating your eyes on the ceiling. The anticipation that came with simply thinking about seeing him again asphyxiated all your worries, filling your chest with an impatient, almost anxious joy. You felt the need to pat your bosom.

This month away from him had really made you miss him.

The sound of faint creaking and rustling coming from your front door put you on guard, making you glance over your shoulder. It was almost imperceptible, but you were fairly certain your ears were not deceiving you. That was not a familiar noise. You firmly planted your feet on the floor and lifted the chair away; to avoid its creaking and rattling revealing your position. Thankfully, your soft footwear allowed you to stealthily make your way to the bench, letting you retrieve the frying pan you had readied for hazelnut toasting. It was not the most dangerous method of persuasion around the house, not even in the kitchen, but you had the feeling it was more than enough. A low-key glance around the corner to survey the hallway revealed no intruders, which prompted you to carefully edge towards the front door. Alarmingly, it was half open. You panicked, making a dash towards it and tightly grasped the doorknob, peering outside. Not a soul in the lobby. Your heartbeat accelerated. You desperately reeled back inside, smelling a trap, but something kept your arm in place. Something sticky had stuck your hand to the knob. Its touch was incredibly familiar as well. The pull of your palm alone weakened and almost broke free of it, but then you turned around and noticed it. A shadowy, slender figure loomed over you, having lowered itself from the ceiling. You caught a glimpse of its upside down upper body, all five glistening, jet black eyes; and all six prowling, fully extended arms. As they lunged at you in unison, your survival instincts sent a jolt of adrenaline through your whole body; snapping you free from the web, but also trapping you, as your own flinch closed the door behind you. You covered your mouth and dropped the frying pan on the ground.

_“Got you, honeybug!”_

He playfully exclaimed. Each one of his hands targeted and grasped a strategic point of your anatomy, arching and lifting you in such a way, your face leant into his ravenous, predatory maw. This all happened quite suddenly, before you had any time to formulate a single coherent thought. But as the realization of what was going on set in, your panicking made way to comfort. His choice of perfume, mixed with his seemingly permanent aroma of baked goods was the first thing your brain recognized. His lips, gently yet firmly wrapped around yours, inclined you to tilt your torso towards him. His six arms had anchored you to him in such a way, despite being hoisted into the air in such a forceful position, your body felt no strain at all; his upper arms acting as a holding point for your hips, his middle ones wrapped around your hips and his lower ones enfolded all the way from your palms to your shoulders. Your wide-open eyes closed as you fully immersed yourself in the kiss, and found your hands pressing against his cheeks. Your heartbeat was still quite accelerated, but you felt compelled to let out a continuous, pleasured coo. Nothing about this situation had failed to turn from intimidating into exhilarating.

What a fiendish ambush.

The locking of your lips went beyond fogging up your eyes with joy and numbing your head and chest with blissful butterflies. It seemed to be distorting time itself, making the gap between the ticks of your foyer clock seem longer and longer. You were very much fine with this, and seized this chance to sink onto your arachnid admirer’s affectionate arm lock, reminiscing about the first time these feelings had come flooding onto your brain. Your first year in culinary arts. Your less than ideal results with all the baking exercises. Flour everywhere, ruined batter, the smell of burning... the need for some support classes. Having happened close together in time, these failures were associated with the time the barrier broke in your mind. Handshakes, raised eyebrows and uneasy expectations as monster students and teachers alike began pouring into your education system, taking this chance to learn more about human culture, and humans eagerly reciprocating. Your curiosity awakening, as the most experienced and solicited teacher appeared to be a monster. One ‘Mr Muffet’, who had also enrolled as a student on your degree. The first time he walked into your classroom, removing his thick coat, revealing his six-sleeved jacket beneath, your throat drying as you witnessed the spectacle of his arms entangling, stretching, flexing.

Your heart skipping a beat after his three-eyed wink at you.

He rubbed his face against your nose as he loosened his grip, letting his tongue out of your still groaning, slightly numb maw. He really had taken his sweet time reacquainting yourself with your feeble mouth. You gasped as he began descending upon the ground, his hands shifting positions as to make sure you flipped along him. He held you in four of his arms, delicately carrying you in his embrace, like a newly-wed wife. His silk snapped as he gracefully landed on the floor, then he less gracefully pulled up his pants with his free pair of hands. The frisky chuckle coming out of his broad chest vibrated through you as he hugged you tightly against it.

 _“Hmmm, my, my, is this what they call winter weight, honeybug? Ahuhuhu_ _~!_ _"_ He warmly kissed your forehead, cradling you like an infant. There was something unusually warm and soothing about the sweater he was wearing. Your heart was still beating quite fast, and the myriad of emotions going through your system was unable to let your excited mind tell if it was due your overwhelming happiness or your self-preservation, which still hadn’t processed you weren’t in any actual danger. Possibly a mix of both.

You formed a fist and timidly yet sternly bonked him in the head, receiving a soft, playful coo in return. He scratched his head in the midst of another giggle fit, only seeming to want to cling tighter to you after this.

 _“Hey! It does look good on you, deary, don’t worry!”_ Your hands clasped to the neck of his sweater, a single tear rolling down your cheek.

You barked a mildly rude name at him, making sure to highlight the fact he had given you the scare of your life. Still stifling his laughter, he simply brushed your tear off with one of his slender fingertips. Your foreheads gingerly bumped, making you notice his touch was definitely warmer than usual.

 _“I’m sorry… It’s just I missed you so much, I guess I got a little overexcited there. Forgive my silly games, honeybug. You can forgive your spooder boy, can’t you? You know how into you your spood is… ahuhu_ _~_ _”_ Equal parts embarrassed and flustered, you could almost feel yourself becoming tomato-red.

You said nothing, letting the tiny, furtive smooches you were stealing off his cheeks do all the talking. He beamed, rocking you in his arms to his heart’s content, until just before the point of your warmnesses intertwining becoming uncomfortable, he leaned in for a last kiss on your cheek, before tilting his arms to gradually let you on the ground. But even then you still craved more, moving in to hug his waist, and lean against his broad chest. As you were providing enough push by yourself, he simply wrapped his arms around your whole midsection.

 _“There, there, you see? Despite your efforts on being the sweetest thing in the world, I’m not going to eat you! It’s fine…”_ You trembled. It truly overwhelmed you just how right it felt to have him again here, for you to hug, for you to be with. You stifled your sobs, head engulfed in his chest, his ample claw caressing the top of your head. Still holding your arms and hips he slowly drove you both apart. His five-eyed gaze did not leave your face even once, which made you realize you had to adjust to picking a set of eyes to follow again. Like you used to, you chose the lower one. _“We have a lot to talk about, but that does not mean we should lose any time on your baking lessons! Oh, but before we get to that, I brought you presents!”_ He strode away from you, leaving you to rub your torso, still feeling his warmth still on your skin.  He lifted a finger in your face, bearing two bags

You crossed your arms and raised an eyebrow, asking if his “gifts” came with a receipt this time. He cackled.

 _“Oh, my bittersweet little thing… huhu… you hurt me! Well, you’ll be glad to know that most of them did not cost me a cent. Our finances are in top shape with me at the hull, as always! But I digress, look, look!”_ He chortled, hauling a red and green diamond-patterned sweater out of his nearest bag, wobbling it in front of your face. He flushed a deep hue of purple. _“I…I’ve been practising! My mom helped me with the dyeing… do you like it?”_ You grasped it by the shoulders and slipped it off his hands in your direction. Muffet twiddled four of his thumbs in fluttery anticipation, scratching his head. A spider silk sweater. Silk from your monster boyfriend’s butt.

Adorable.

You took almost a minute to hug the neck of the hand-woven piece of clothing before sloppily pulling it over your head, above the apron. You could tell from him holding his cheeks and peeping in delight this was a good enough showing of your appreciation. After a single, slow spin to showcase yourself, you asked him if it looked good on you.

 _“Yes… Yes! You look precious, honeybug! Absolutely adorable!”_ Head leaning downwards, you bashfully smiled in agreement. As it didn’t take much for the many layers of clothing, coupled with the remainder of the warmth of your embrace to overwhelm you with torridness, you removed the sweater, sighing.

Articulating your gratitude, you did your best to put into words how much you appreciated his gift. You folded the sweater in the air, repackaging it in its bag as he enthusiastically showered you with oodles of handcrafted memorabilia from the Ruins: an astonished-looking fly encased in an iridescent chunk of amber, spider web-patterned teacup holders, a chord-activated fluttering ‘Whimsum’ plushie and a snow globe of an ancient castle with minuscule autumn leaves instead of snowflakes. Amazing. These wondrous little trinkets really made you want to go there with him sometime, to see what his home was like. And of course, so next time you didn’t have to spend so much time away from him. All the souvenirs having been set in the foyer table, you jumped at the jolt of his palm landing on your shoulder. He fastened his own apron.

 _“Now! Don’t think this means I have forgotten about your homework…. I want to see the cookies you had to make for today. Chop-chop.”_ He clapped twice along his last remark. You gulped, feeling your heart race at higher speeds as you picked up your pan from the ground. If there was something you’d take over being devoured by him, it was getting in between him and his craft.

You timidly affirmed they were ready for his inspection, pointing towards the kitchen as he led you there, never once letting go of your shoulder. Bracing yourself for his almost manic perfectionism sure brought you back to the very first support class of his you attended. The silence that reigned over your colleagues after he shoulder bashed the door open, theatrically announcing the beginning of “Lousy baker season”. The disappointment in so many aspiring pastry maker’s faces as he discarded, spit out, threw away and squashed so many imperfect baked goods. His particular, borderline predatory fixation for your skills, as someone who was already lagging behind in a mediocre class and seemed to manage botching even sponge cake. The shame, frustration and exhaustion upon having your work displayed and mocked as ‘an example to avoid’, like he put it; describing the foul taste and uninviting, sloppy texture for everyone to laugh at. His conceited simpers and smug stares. The determination that brewed in your heart to defeat this askew arachnid artisan. Sleepless nights of studying recipes. Long practise sessions measuring, scooping and mixing suitable amounts of sour and sugar. The scratching and pouring hot water into your hands to remove the hardened, gunky excess dough. That guilty tingle as you realized you had gone over the recommended pre-heating time for the oven as you were preoccupied with something else. So many failures. But less frequent as time went on. And so worth it if they finally helped you get his smug, fang-filled sneer out of your head. The five jet black pearls he had for eyes too. Not to mention his toned yet graceful anatomy. His tuneful, sultry voice…

And a good two months after, that batch of muffins you managed to pull off in class, in which only three of them were slightly charred. The inquisitive look on his face as his fangs made short work of the worst-looking one. His deadpan gaze as he, for once, swallowed your handiwork instead of spitting it with barely a touch of his tongue, coldly ordering you to meet him in his office after class. The trepidation in your chest as you walked into the big mean spider’s lair, wondering what the hell he wanted of you this time. Your confusion upon noticing the lights didn’t turn on became panic once you stepped into the room and found your feet stuck to a gooey substance on the ground. The more you struggled, the more you sunk. A string attached to the door tug and shut it behind you, trapping you in the dim chamber. Your terror-stricken senses paralyzed as five almost invisible, glistening beacons lit up in front of you.

 _“Good job. I knew you could do it.”_ The ghoul had whispered in a sweet timbre. _“Now… I’ve noticed there’s something else you’re interested in other than baking. I’ve noticed your stares… even if I know you haven’t noticed mine… so how about some pointers on the subject? No strings attached…”_ You don’t remember what the response of your confused, terrified and curious self was, or what exactly your thoughts on the matter were. But it must have been affirmative, as you do remember his answer, as a number of shadowy claws held your wrists and shoulders, the buttons of your shirt unfastening.

_“That’s the spirit, honeybug.”_

As Muffet’s palm held you on the short walk down the hallway to your kitchen, you could not help but swoon at the memory of his bare, pristinely sculpted anatomy revealing itself between as your eyes grew used to the penumbra. But an alarming thought soon brought you back from that sweet, perilous trap you felt so lucky to have walked into, back into your miserable reality.

You never got around to getting rid of the cookies that had charred.

Oh no.

 


	2. Scones

You nervously drummed your fingers on the kitchen bench, your hips fidgeting back and forth. The crunch of your boyfriend’s teeth crumbling your cookie (the most seared one he could spot, of course) sent such uncomfortable chills down your neck, he might as well had been chewing your own bones. A thought that was nothing to sneeze at, considering his spider fangs’s length could measure up with your thumbs. Noticing the crackling sound had stopped, you shifted your gaze from the floor to his face, facing a six-eyed, accusatory stare. You stopped drumming your fingers, hiding your hands on your back, from where you hoped they could stop irritating him. He resumed his crunching, and eventually swallowed the bite, exhaling inquisitively. You sighed in relief, as this was already a good sign.

Like he himself usually put it: “Not every pastry is worth swallowing.”

 _“You set them the same way you used to in class, right? Honeybug, please remember not every oven is the same, they love to spread the heat unevenly, the little imps…”_ His face twisted unto an annoyed glare, directed at your mischievous home appliance. _“You really have to know what you’re dealing with if you want to make quality baked goods. Next time, remember what I told you.”_ He punctuated his lecture by waving the remains of your pastry in the air.

You scratched your hair, nodding in agreeance, embarrassed you had forgotten most of his pointers on heat redistribution. However, your frown reversed once he promptly devoured the rest of your cookie, and with gusto, at that. He smiled through his still full, wobbling cheeks, wrapping five of his twenty-four fingers across your shoulder.

 _“Now, now, not to deny your progress! The batter must have been fine, since this one, definitely the lousiest one of the bunch, is edible. You even made it so without me to supervise it. I’m proud of you, deary.”_ He crossed his arms and applauded you with almost coy enthusiasm.

You scratched your chin, relieved your batter had turned out so well, it even shined through your botched baking. You almost got rid of the worst ones by eating them, but further preparations distracted you. Just as you were about to fetch a cookie to try yourself, Muffet’s silky yet firm digits clenched around your wrist, forcing you to drop the round treat as he teetered you in his direction. You met face to face with the sight of his pointy tongue, which was sweeping his lips across a frisky grin.

 _“No need to fetch another, honeybug, your share of this one is right here….”_ He clenched your docile wrists, diving his tongue straight into your salivating mouth. If the kiss from before had been passionate and loving, if a bit intense, this one sparred every unnecessary emotion and simply became an efficient, merciless assault on your taste buds. The wet, squelching snake trembled against yours, permeating your yap with the sugary taste. As used as you were to them, you were not yet numb to his forceful advances, but you found yourself paying a lot more attention to the subtle improvements of your dough’s taste than to the smooch itself. Once the taste seemed to run out, he unfolded his carpet-like tongue out of your maw, smug sneer on his face. Two of his forearms leaned against your back arching you over, the rest getting busy hugging your shoulders and scratching your chin. Just like earlier, the warmth he emanated overcame you. Still fidgeting from the forceful kiss, his embrace sent pleasantly tepid vibes through your anatomy. This welcome, torrid sensation was not entirely unfamiliar, but it was distinctly refreshing. Not to mention… it made no sense for him to be this warm. Not when remembering how harsh a toll the cold normally took on his body.

Recalling the first time you witnessed just how much the cold hurt him brought back the shock and pity the sad display had come with. It was as if his magnificent, impeccably sculpted body crumbled into one of those brittle, overbaked failures of yours. Noticeably slower, so sheepish and meek his smarmy charms evaporated, all his peppy energy and enthusiasm bogged down by the cumbersome, inelegant clothes he had to insulate himself with… Seeing him crouching in front of the ovens with his six palms open, shivering as he tried to scavenge any warmth he could possibly absorb was such a pitiful sight. First time you had witnessed him like this was at autumn’s dawn, right after your affair in his office, so it was quite hard to believe he was the same spider. The way he gleefully scrutinized and stimulated your every corner with his arms, tongue and his… errr… his exploration had been quite thorough. Where had all that fervency gone? On retrospect, the way he leaned and tried to sink into you was remarkably clingy for a one-time affair. It gave you the impression he was seeking your heat… and with how he barely mentioned the whole thing to you, as passionate as it had been, it gave you the impression there was something very, very wrong. Not to mention, like most monsters living in a human town like yours, he probably lived by himself, which meant no one to help him in this strange, cold land.

Would confronting him about his predicament be overstepping your boundaries? Had your affair been a one-off? If so, why did it leave you caring so much about his well-being? You simply could not bear seeing someone so enchanting in such a state. It was wrong.

And you had never wanted to right a wrong so much.

Confronting him during class was met with timid smiles and witless teases. _“Me? Not looking so well? Start worrying once I look half as lousy as those muffins of yours do, deary!”_ A very obvious façade which didn’t last long anyways, as he seemed to stare into infinity and lean into tables for support once he wasn’t needed elsewhere. His plight was crystal clear to you, but his need to maintain his image and suck up his pride was even clearer. Therefore, you planned to confront him when no prying eyes would allow his dignity deny himself the support he needed. Being in the same degree, you were colleagues during the morning, so it was not hard to eventually find him during a break, pathetically hunched over in a bench.  His five glassy eyes were contorted into a despair-filled frown, failing to even notice you were around to see him in such a sorry state.

That was the last straw. You had to do something.

As you rested your hand on his broad shoulder, his sluggish jolt upwards gave you an idea of his weak condition. He smiled anaemically, struggling to fix his unkempt hair.

 _“Why, hello there, if it isn’t my star pupil! If you want me to reconsider about your last assignment, forget it, your essay on gluten is due on the…”_ You let your gazes meet dead-on by driving apart the bangs of his hair that come between you and set your hands in his cheeks, stopping his forced diatribe. He cooed. At first his skin had a glacial thought, but you eventually felt the heat from your palms evenly transfer to him. He weakly moaned, clasping your hands in his claws and closing his eyes.

 _“It’s nothing… I get like this this time of year… it’s just the surface is a little colder than I thought. I’ll be peachy, you just…”_ You interrupted again by shaking him, but after noticing how limp his neck was in your comparatively much feebler arms, you considerably eased down.

You told him he was in no condition to continue with his lessons, and offered to take care of him until a monster doctor could see him. He forlornly groaned and rubbed his shoulders, sliding down as if he was trying to shrink into the bench. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined this usually collected, predatory arachnid looking so meek and vulnerable.

 _“Please… I swear, I’ll be fine… it’s just the same thing every year. I can’t let this slow me down, if I put my job on jeopardy, my family… my family…”_ His tone was worryingly similar to that of a feverish person. Looking on the verge of tears, he tugged into locks of his beautiful mane. You brushed his arms aside, lunging towards his torso and coiled your arms around his shoulders. His touch felt so cold. Layers of clothing had failed in keeping his temperature high, as rather than the insulation they provided, he needed a heat source. Eventually, your silent embrace more than sufficed, evening your temperatures up. Both of you remained quiet until he reciprocated your hug, clinging to your warmth with all of his arms. From this close up, his state was such a sad, disheartening sight. Like a corpse trying to convince itself it wasn’t such by smiling. At this point, tears began falling down your cheeks.

You begged him to let you help him, and to trust you. You swore he was not going to lose his job. You promised him you were going to do everything in your power to help him through this the best way he could. His trembling skin had lit into a pleasant, lukewarm touch. At this point, copious tears began falling down his five eyes as well.

That afternoon, Muffet told you his story over a spot of tea. How lethal cold was to spider monsters. How he and his family had grown so tired of being stranded in the Ruins for so long, he had crossed Snowdin in a trek that almost took his life. How he took up the ancestral tradition of spider baking with the purpose of paying for their safe relocation. How disappointingly little he had managed to save for years. How the shattering of the barrier had opened up a new world of possibilities for him. How desperately he longed to provide a new life not only for his loved ones, but for himself. You took his hand, promising him you’d help him adjust to human society, acting as his steward to humankind. Having proven years of fear-mongering and rumours about the evil that lurked in the soul of humans wrong, his gaze regained all his lustre and hope, all five misty eyes gazing at you endearingly. Where he had expected to only find a fun plaything, he had found an incredibly precious friend.

Next day, after a visit to both a human and a monster doctor to prove his vulnerable condition, you accompanied him to the Dean’s office. He had insisted for you to please be a ‘negotiator’ between you and the potentially tyrannical human. He seemed to be unreasonably afraid of all human figures of authority, no doubt thanks to decades of horror stories about their mercilessness. Predictably, his fears quickly dissipated as the mild-mannered, middle-aged head of your campus allowed a generous three month break on his trial teachership, courtesy of the monster integration program that had allowed him to enrol in university in the first place. You still had to attend class, but officially agreed to regularly check up and report on him. The official reasoning behind your appointment was so you could relay his notes and feedback of your classmates to the teacher that was to replace him.

But in reality, you just wanted to take care of him.

It was true that you were struggling with baking. All that precise measuring and delicate kneading handiwork really clashed with your freeform, self-taught approach to foodstuff-making. Yet ironically, he seemed to have the opposite problem, as not only did he have a hard time with the intuitive approach regular cuisine needed, the very idea seemed completely alien to him. Turns out all monsters ate was junk food and sweets, and since human society had no shortage of those, most were having hard time bettering their diets on the surface. But there was so much more he needed. First thing you brought into his shabby, almost destitute apartment was a miniature heater. Every time you entered his humble abode, you found him curled up in his reading chair as he basked in its warmth, eyeing his notes on baking or one of the books you had lent him. After that, your present of choice became fresh ingredients, which you used to prepare all sorts of savoury, hearty, healthy meals. Winter-friendly, nutritious variants of soups, stews, rice, and pasta dishes and more became part of his diet. At first, he recoiled at their salty, bitter taste; only ever accepting them the same way a child taking his repulsive medicine does. But eventually, he warmed up to their flavour, soothed by the superior nutrition they provided, a difference especially palpable for someone who had been living on a diet of nothing but burgers and sweets. Last but not least, you also brought a particularly intimate kind of care, and an essential remedy for his cold-related problems.

The warm touch of your own hot blood.

When the temperature dropped below zero, it hit him incredibly hard. His movements grew sluggish, his gaze grew glassy, and his will seemed to evaporate. And in those moments, you were there to hug him. Sometimes, the loneliness and despair that came from being holed up in his paltry home made his efforts to integrate in human society feel completely fruitless. And you always seemed to arrive right in time to keep him company and in touch with the outside world when he most needed it. Every so often, he sighed about places he’d want to see with his own eyes, maddened by the lack of fresh air and exercise. And you were there to hold his hand and safely help him out of his apartment. You melted in a warm embrace every night, reassuring him times were going to get better for him as long as he never lost hope.

And in turn, receiving this warmth back from him months later felt so… right.

With a purposely exaggerated slurping sound, he unwrapped his slender but powerful tongue away from yours, reeling it inside his cheeky grin. The taste of your cookie still lingered in your benumbed mouth. You rubbed your cheeks.

 _“Well, there you have it! Not a bad taste, good texture, pretty evenly cut… I’d say that earns your cookies a C+. Your highest score yet, deary! Hooray!”_ He crowed in a condescending tone, shattering the dreamy illusion. You sighed through your nostrils and socked him away with a playful elbow to the stomach. Briefly peeped, he snickered between two of his claws.

“ _Ahuhu_ _~_ _ow…well that does it, cupcake, surprise baking exam! Three-story cake! No recipe!”_ Trying to fight smug with smug, you sneered and stomped towards him, making him back off between chortles. His spider web motif-decorated purple apron shook wildly.

Your hands slid a sheet of paper out of your own apron’s pocket, which he instantly recognized as his ‘Spider scone’ recipe, the one you had been preparing all day. You highlighted several red marks and lines with your index finger, explaining all the changes you had made to it, such as substituting the butter for bananas, and replacing the live spiders with strawberries. He guffawed, remembering the first time he had tried to treat you to his family recipe, the frozen look of fear and disgust in your face when you noticed the dozens of little legs crawling through your arms.

 _“Fine, okay, I yield! Only because I don’t think my body could take another prick of your fearsome stinger, honeybug! Huhu_ _~_ _”_ You raised his hand to reach the top of his head, patting him. A child-like giggle escaped through his maw and two crossed finger sets.

But before that, feeling his coy games were getting old, you directly asked about his condition. Drawing curves and circles on his chest, you vividly highlighted how much nicer he felt, contrasting the smoother but colder former touch of his skin to his new tepid self. He appeared to be the speechless and flustered one for a chance, nervously fidgeting his arms about, his gaze averting yours.

No more dawdling. You wanted to know now.

 _“N…n-nothing gets through you, huh, honeybug? Fine… I thought this could wait but… I guess not for you. Let me put it in a way you’ll… both understand and appreciate!”_ His arms worked with their usual efficiency, untying and discarding his apron aside at the same time he lifted the bottom of his six-sleeved sweater and red shirt beneath. He pulled just shy of revealing his pectorals, resulting in him presenting his bare, Adonis-like waist to you. The mouth-watering, familiar outline of his abdominal muscles compelled you to kneel and stare at them as close as possible. Your bafflement was only comparable in size to the tornado-like, elated tingle on your gut. You weren’t following. You were quite grateful, having missed this particular sight quite a lot, but you still weren’t following. You could only stare. And keep staring. The deep purple hue of his face grew darker and darker the more your hypnotized gaze stuck to his abs, no words left in your dry throat. He tapped his foot on the ground, bringing you back to Earth. _“A-hem! What are you waiting for, s-silly? Dig in already! Feel it! I…I know how you have missed worshipping me! Ahu_ _~_ _…huhu_ _~_ _hu…hu_ _~_ _...”_ His attempts to appear coy failed spectacularly. No forced, quivering smile could have dissimulated his anticipation, more befitting a little girl, nervous about her piano recital than such a spectacular, looming arachnid.

Your trembling mitts made their way to his purple muscly abdomen, nesting themselves in it. Same old. Not to diminish your bliss, as not a bit of his perfection had been spoiled in whatever process elevated his body temperature like this, but indeed, same old. Well, save for the warmth. That was incredible. You felt like sinking into it. And with your first push, you noticed the most glaring difference. Whereas his velvety skin used to feel like a shallow, plastic-like fibre covering his hard exoskeleton, your fingers sunk into a much more generous and mushy layer of… softness. Your eyes bolted wide open. Incredible. You repeatedly pressed your palms onto the cushiony meat. What in the hell had happened? And why did it feel so… right? Eventually, your hands stopped being enough. Your face was just as compelled to receive some of that warmth as closely as possible. You slowly leant in, your whole vision obscured by the approaching, heat-emanating wall of purple, and almost on its own, your tongue was let out of its slimy confines. With an eagerness you would have trouble putting into words, and not completely unlike your baking lessons, you gave the dough you had just kneaded a thorough, hearty taste with your tongue. Your upwards lick was slow and unwavering, fuelled by your body’s urgent need to feel as much of this squishy ardour in the most intimate, abundant way possible. Your face trembled in excitement. Once you were satisfied and the thought of looking up occurred to you, you were greeted to all six of his hands covering his flushed, trembling head.

So that’s where that muffled moaning had been coming from…

It took you both quite a while to gather your bearings after this passionate vignette, let alone unsticking your head from his lap and his hands from your forehead. A glass of water and preparations for the scones provided suitable diversions. You needed to focus. This was work time, not fun time. That would come later, granted work time was done with as soon as possible. You weighed the baking materials as he chopped the strawberries. Fanning his eggplant-violent face with one of his hands (one of the quirks of being six-armed), he explained his condition as he worked.

 _“Remember that… weird fever I had last month? Well, when I visited doctor Isai like you asked to, he told me something very interesting I... kind of hid from you because I didn’t want you to worry.”_ Fastening the cutting board in place with two of his claws, his knife danced up and down, dicing the fruit with impeccable precision. You would have complimented how better his cutting hand had gotten, were not for how his story had worried you so far.

Some drops of the milk you were pouring on your measuring cup dripped on the table as you banged it with your fist, scolding him for keeping stuff like that from his human caretaker. He apologetically shook his palms, an embarrassed look on his face.

 _“It’s fine, it’s fine! It’s just… just hear me out, please. I kept quiet because he told me something very strange. A hypothesis of his. You see, after coming to the surface, especially after forming close bonds with humans, many monsters have seen… strange changes in their bodies.”_ He pulled his sleeve further down, displaying his bare forearm, pinching and stretching a scoop of its soft flesh. He cooed an unexpected whimper of annoyance, staring his own arm down as if looking at some otherworldly alien creature. _“Well… like this. Our bodies are very complicated and mysterious to us, honeybug. Even more than yours. But doctor Isai had never seen something like this before, not even once in his long, long life… and he’s certain it is because of you humans. Are you following me so far?”_ Awaiting for your response, Muffet dragged the diced strawberries into a dish with the knife’s blade, then began washing it.

You nodded over your shoulder as you kept pressing the diced banana against the flour, salt, sugar and baking powder mixture, blending it all. He approached you, setting the dish next to the rest of ingredients and nestling his chin on your shoulder. You leant into him and kept working.

 _“Well then… from his observations, it always happens when a human shares something new with his monster friend. A catalyst, if you would. Such as… some human music helping the hearing of some almost deaf monsters, human fashion making monsters with unstable bodies become more solid and well, in my case…”_ Pushing you with his hips from behind, he softly pressed against your whole body, making sure not to disturb your arms. He used to call this move ‘A test of your focus’, and by this time you had grown used to it, as your work moisturizing the pastry batter with the milk remained relatively unwavered. Yet these warm shivers that pulsed through his body, enveloping from behind, seeping into your body through our sensitive neck… that was really pushing you to your limit. He moaned against your chest. _“…this is what I got. You feel it? I’ve never felt this amazing and confident… and I might even be able to help my family get it too, with your food and your brand of love and care. How does this make you feel, honeybug?”_ His lips caressed your unsteady neck in a slow, tender kiss.

You felt many things, that was for sure. Intense, head-numbing, gut-tingling- throat-drying things. But you simply could not bring yourself to answer his question. Reaching with one of his slender arms, he spread the strawberry chunks across the batter. You barely felt like you were able to moan, as you absent-mindedly stretched the scone batter across your flour-covered board, engulfing the fruit morsels along the way. Yet this felt like an ‘auto-pilot’ feature. Your brain was not into it.

Instead, all you could think of was your naked bodies melding in the world’s warmest embrace.

 _“No, honeybug, no, not like that. How many times do I have to tell you to be gentle with the scone batter?”_ He whispered, taking hold of your wrists and softly pressing the dough through them. _“Don’t push them so hard… and fold them five times tops. You don’t want hard scones, don’t you? You want them squishy enough, the crumbs and fruit dissolve together in your tongue…”_ Assisted by his svelte claws, you did your best to gently but thoroughly tuck the dough, repeating the process four times, until you were left with a smooth, thick yellow dough ball with red chunks all over it. You rested your hands above it, Muffet pressing it into a thick sheet of paste. He gently chuckled, letting go of your hands and reeling back, away from you. _“Now, use that mould and give me at least twelve, waste the least batter possible. Behave yourself while I go set the oven grate!”_ He slid the circular pastry mould on the table and strided away.

You felt the need to answer but ultimately didn’t bother, fearing only a babble might have escaped your thirsty kisser. You repeatedly jammed the metallic pattern into the dough, making an effort to only leave a tiny gap between all the eleven would-be scones you created. Making perfect rows, you set them atop the oven paper-covered tray; then scooped all the leftover dough into the mould, managing to create a twelfth. You set it with the others and seized the tray, proudly smiling at your perfect creations through your still heavy breathing. Muffet’s hand on your shoulder made the tray and its contents jump along you.

 _“There they are! Nice and stout… and they are apart enough from each other for the baking powder to do its thing without them hobbling together. Marvellous! Now, pop them in the oven…”_ He reached back and opened the baking appliance, sending a dashing bow your way. You carefully inserted the tray, fastening it in the middle rack, Muffet finishing the job by closing the door. He dramatically dusted the hands of his middle palms, unfastening the apron with the upper, and simply resting his lower in his hips _. “Fifteen minutes! Since opening the oven to switch them around is generally a bad idea, I put some tinfoil in the bottom. Let’s see if that helps our little ‘uneven heating’ problem, hmmh?”_ Doing an ‘okay” sign, you sighed and bent your knees, truly exhausted. That had been enough baking for one day.

You felt like collapsing onto a chair, then panting in it to your hearts content. He perked your chin up with his pointy index digit, forcing your gazes to meet. Beaming wholesomely, Muffet wiped his misty, tender eyes, unable to take them all out of you. You were understandably overwhelmed. He leaned his forehead into yours, holding your shoulders, waist and hips.

 _“I love you, honeybug. You’re wonderful. Thank you for everything. Come see my family with me next spring break. My parents said they wanted to see the ‘one good human’ with their own eyes… ahuhu_ _~!_ _Eeeerm, please don’t take that the wrong way… they’re very old fashioned folks.”_ You reciprocated his smile, first as tenderly and gently as you could, until a naughty idea occurred to you. Taking a page from him, you raised your eyebrows and stuck your fingers through his sweater’s neck, caressing him and tugging the ring of fabric like a dog’s collar.

A mischievous simper on your face, you repeatedly pointed to the floor.

His face flushed the richest, most extreme shade of purple you had witnessed yet. But ultimately, as if infected by your energetically frisky smile, he reciprocated your intentions, licking his lips. It was written all over his face: all this studying had finally paid off.

 _“Yes, fifteen minutes is plenty of time for me to make you all toasty…”_ He cackled, graciously sliding his arms out of his six sleeves at the same time he unbuttoned your shirt and undid your belt. You got busy on disentangling his.

You smugly begged him to please keep his web off the oven and fridge at least. Already making you lean downwards and grabbing your shoulders, his signature laugh escaped through one of his two free wrists.

“ _Ahuhuhuhu_ _~!_ _Oh my bittersweet, innocent honeybug, you know I’m awful at keeping business and pleasure apart! But just for you, I’ll give it my best try!”_

What would cook its target faster? Four hundred degrees baking twelve scones … or six eager arms baking one single human?

The oven’s timer ticked.

 

**Epilogue**

 

Following a busy first day of class after the Holidays, most of the gastronomy campus’ students had had enough slicing and baking for a day, anxious to visit their post-class clubs, go hang out with their colleagues or simply return home. While not quite as demanding as an actual work day in a for-profit eatery, most of the classes involved daily inventory managing and production of actual food, which was to be used in receptions and other events. It was strenuous work, and most pupils were very thankful they finally got a respite. But despite the greater part of the exhausted undergrads already breathing easily, not all of them were as lucky. Some aprons and cooking caps remained unfastened, some knives were still being sharpened, some lists of ingredients and recipes doubled checked. Their stagnant results and pendant tests forced them to remain busy while everybody else already enjoyed the freedom they had yet to earn.

That unfortunate group was the support class students.

But despite their low spirits and grades, a particular class of Support Baking felt relieved and confident. Under normal circumstances, the fact that the affable, mild-mannered Professor Whilbur would not be returning after his substitute period had finished didn’t diminish their moral at all. After all, reputable sources and word of mouth had revealed the weakness of their brutal former teacher. The Rookie devourer, the Six-armed Ogre, the Bakery terror… was no more. The mid-January cold had supposedly turned him into a puny, confused, shivering little spider for them to squash in retaliation. They metaphorically rubbed their palms, having formulated a multitude of schemes to get back at him for his merciless, brutal methods, for all the times he had humiliated them, crushing their hopes with his sickening, maddening perfectionism. It was payback time.

And revenge truly was a dish best served cold.

However, five minutes before the official start of the class, their hopes and dreams were dashed as the familiar sound of the door slamming itself open before the three-shouldered tackle made them jump in unison. A six-armed majestic, slender figure lay in the doorframe, confidently stepping in…

…bearing a purple, spider web-patterned summer shirt and some rather… scant shorts.

 _“Ahuhuhuhu_ _~!_ _Did you miss me, cupcakes? Well, I did not miss your reports!”_ He lifted his sunglasses, the eyes beneath even glossier than their lenses. _“I heard you’ve all grown lazy in my absence… heard you thought it's okay to overcook your doughs… that you settle for mediocre textures… that you overdo it with the sugar to hide your messed up flour mixes! It’s like you want me to punish you all… Tsk, tsk!”_ He made his way to his desk, a deafening thud booming as he assaulted it from above with a six-palm slam. _“But. I’ll forgive you if you give me a good welcome present, like… let’s say… thirteen marble cakes with white chocolate frosting. Your lucky number! Would be good for a warmup. You’ve got one hour and a half. Of course, that includes you, honeybug. Don’t be shy, come on in.”_ He repeatedly snapped his fingers, fangs peeking through his infuriatingly smug simper.

You meekly snooped through the doorframe and waved for the class, wishing the embarrassment let you spontaneously combust. The most mortifying part was, he had dressed and acted the exact same way that morning as your cooking colleague. He just… would not stop cackling like a mad spider at every little thing. He just never seemed to grow exhausted of it. Unfortunately, you already were. This was equal parts tiresome and mortifying.

And it was starting to feel like the norm.

 _“Ahuu_ _~_ _huhuhuhu_ _!_ _A_ _~_ _huhuhuhuhuhuhu_ _~_ _!”_ Now the center of every stare in the classroom, you slid against the doorframe, delaying stepping into the same space as him for as long as you could.

Still, not even this shame akin to that of a five year-old teased by his parent in front of his colleagues diminished your endearment. Your heart was quite warmed by how far Muffet had come with your support.  You had helped each other so much. Together, you felt invincible. He sure did.

Unfortunately, he spent the next three days home because of a cold he caught, thanks to his choice of attire in this not freezing, but still chilly winter day. On the other hand, neither of you minded that much. He simply laughed it off this time.

Better yet, you laughed it off together.


End file.
